Monkey Business (16 page)

It occurred to me that Phil was probably over the legal limit. I wondered what the legal limit was in Saint Sebastian. But, I thought, his body was probably so used to being pickled, maybe he'd be dangerous if he
hadn't
had a drink. Kitty didn't seem concerned about anything as she sat with the window open, wind blowing her hair. Phil drove steadily and not too fast. And once Kitty had told him where we were headed, he didn't say a word.

Driving away from Seni and the ocean, along the snaking road that followed the base of the mountain range, I watched the landscape grow and the vegetation become increasingly lush. Without the sea breeze, the humidity was like an all-consuming weight in Phil's non-air-conditioned car. We drove for about an hour and I was feeling a little guilty about dragging Phil on such a long journey. But he didn't seem to mind; there was no grumbling or change in his expression. I had no idea how we were going to get back to Seni. I had no idea what I was going to say to Samson or Rupert Berringer. I had no idea about anything, actually.

Kitty asked Phil to take us up the long, steep driveway of Samson's house, but he refused. He didn't say anything, just stopped and wouldn't go further. So we climbed out of his ute, me hanging onto the hem of my dress, and I thanked him. He nodded. Kitty flung her backpack onto her back. With shoes in hand I started the winding climb up the driveway that was lined on both sides with soaring palms and flourishing tropical growth. I glanced back. Phil was still sitting there, watching us, probably wondering if he'd ever see us again. I hoped he wasn't looking up my dress.

As we trudged along, a frog hopped across our path and onto a leaf as big as a platter. I pointed. ‘Look at that beautiful frog, Kitty.' It was the most vivid colour. It was as orange as . . . an orange.

‘Yes, but you must not go near it unless you want to die. It has enough poison to kill twenty men,' she said conversationally. ‘And there are snakes that can swallow you whole and spiders the size of your face and wild boars in the jungle and crocodiles and —'

‘Okay! Okay. I get it.'

My breathing was laboured from the climb and I knew I'd arrive at the party all sweaty and smelly. Nice. Kitty was striding ahead, her breathing normal. I guess having sex for a living was a good way to stay in shape.

At the top of the hill, where the driveway grew wide and the dense jungle was replaced by landscaped gardens, I asked Kitty to wait while I got my breath back. She stood impatiently, and I gazed around in wonder. The driveway circled a fountain big and ornate enough to impress the Pope, and beyond the fountain was a whopping great white house with a portico three storeys high. It looked like Tara from
Gone With The Wind
.

‘Come on, Erica. Let us have a party!' said Kitty, snatching the shoes from my hand and forcing them onto my feet. I shuffled after her to the front door. She rang the bell and it was opened by a butler. He took Kitty's bag. I wouldn't let go of mine, which I was wearing on my back. Kitty barged through the house in the direction of the chatting and laughter. I followed meekly, nervous. The house was lit brightly by chandeliers and wall lights – all of them turned on, even though it was the middle of the day, because the shutters on the windows were closed. The long passage opened onto a cavernous room that was filled with drinking, cavorting men, scampering monkeys and . . . prostitutes. Dozens of them, all dressed in sexy costumes or clinging, animal-print dresses, just like mine. Kitty yoo-hooed at someone and dashed across the room. I spun on my stilettoed heel with the intention of running out of there as fast as I could, hoping Phil might still be sitting at the bottom of the driveway in his lovely ute, but I slammed straight into a tuxedoed chest.

‘I was hoping we'd meet again,' said the owner of the chest.

I looked up, and found I was staring into the face of a bastard.

I shook my head. This couldn't be right. I blinked, looked around. Mick Jansen?

‘Wh— What are you doing here?' I stammered.

‘Just enjoying myself with friends. My
real
friends.'

He looked past me then, took one step back, his expression changing.

Behind me a refined, British voice said, ‘Surely you'll stay for one drink?'

I knew it was Rupert Berringer before I turned to look; he even sounded like Hugh Grant.

Mick Jansen moved away, quickly.

I said, ‘Ah, er, I forgot something and I need to leave.'

‘Oh, but you can't leave,' murmured Berringer, leaning close to my ear. ‘Not until we get to know each other better.'

I backed away. ‘Well, that sounds great, but I really do have to go.'

I tried to walk past him but he held my arm.

‘I don't like your shoes,' he said, checking them out.

‘What?'

‘They don't fit.'

‘They're not —'

‘I wouldn't like them even if they did.' He gripped my arm. ‘Come along.'

‘No. Please. I need to leave.'

He smiled. His lips were thinner than Hugh Grant's, I thought. I struggled, trying to free my arm, looking frantically around. Kitty was talking to a man across the room. It was Samson.

‘Kitty!' I called out.

She gave me a little wave.

‘
Kitty!
' I screamed it.

A few people looked at me, frowning.

Kitty put a finger to her lips.
Ssh
.

‘Your friend won't help you,' said Rupert. ‘She brought you here for me.'

‘What? No!'

‘And besides, you won't get far if you run.' He glanced around.

Apart from monkeys, laughing men and hookers, and me, there were men with guns. Big, muscly men dressed like old-fashioned warriors – bare chested with topknots in their hair and tattoos. They stayed on the periphery, strolling back and forth, back and forth, looking like they wouldn't mind an excuse to shoot someone.

My body sagged. Rupert eased his grip. ‘That's better,' he said and took a glass of champagne from a passing tray. ‘Here, this will loosen you up a bit.' He smiled. ‘You need to relax, Erica.'

‘You're nothing but a dirty thief,' I spat, shrugging him off. But I took the champagne.

He seemed surprised. ‘Oh, but I'm so much more than that.' He put an arm around my shoulder, tight, and led me into the crowd.

Across the room I could see Mick Jansen, talking to people, having a great time. He'd be in his element here, I thought, in a room full of violent, abusive men, and women he could do whatever he wanted with. But
 . . . what
was he doing here?

There was someone else there I knew. Dwayne from the bloody plane was staring at me. I narrowed my eyes at him and he returned the look. He made his way towards me, keeping a wary eye on Rupert Berringer.

Berringer said to him, ‘This one's mine; keep that in mind.'

Dwayne gave him a nod, and Berringer turned away to fondle some woman's backside.

Dwayne said, his voice low and a bit angry, ‘Well, now I know why you didn't come to my room last night. I didn't offer to pay.'

And I said, ‘I'm not really surprised to see you here with all your thieving friends.'

‘You should have told me you were with Berringer.' Then he looked concerned, whispering, ‘He know you were with me last night?'

I rolled my eyes, hissed, ‘I'm not his girlfriend. I'm his prisoner!'

‘Sure, sure.'

‘And, hey, you sent your stinking thieves to my mother's house!'

Dwayne held up his hands. ‘Not me.'

Rupert had his back to us, engrossed in conversation. There was a lot of squealing and giggling all around us. Deep laughter from the men.

‘I don't believe you. You stole my mother's beetroot container.'

‘You said she didn't have one.'

Pause. ‘I lied.'

‘I think you tell a lot of lies, Erica Jewell. Like the real reason you're here in Saint Sebastian. Like your association with the likes of them.' He nodded around the room.

‘With the likes of
your
friends, you mean.' I got teary then, looking around. Rupert Berringer wasn't watching me but the warriors were, clearly under instruction to keep an eye on the one hooker who would give just about anything to be back at the Bum Crack Bar or, better still, spending a week locked in her boss's office while Rosalind droned on about said hooker's commitment to her job.

Dwayne, his voice gentle, said, ‘You really don't want to be here?'

I shook my head, looked down, a fat tear plopped onto the floor.

Rupert's arms came around me from behind and he kissed my neck. Dwayne backed away. I gave him a pleading look, but he was already talking to someone else.

For the next hour, Rupert Berringer made me stand next to him while he chatted to men in Portuguese. Dwayne stayed away from me, but occasionally our eyes met briefly. Apart from the fact that I was terrified out of my brain, my feet were now starting to hurt and I really wanted to sit down.

Kitty skipped over and I hissed, ‘You set me up!'

‘Oh, relax, Erica.'

‘I wish everyone would stop telling me to relax.'

‘Remember that you are the lucky one,' she reminded me in a low voice. ‘Every other girl here would love to be chosen by Rupert Berringer. And besides, the champagne is French!'

I turned my head away. I would never speak to her again, I decided, if I survived.

By the time a loud clapping hushed the room, I'd sussed out every door, shuttered window, corner and crevice. I'd strained my eyes to see through walls, under the floor, trying to work out how to escape. Still standing obediently with my new ‘boyfriend', I turned to see who was making the clapping noise. It was Samson, standing on a step. He spread his arms wide. Kitty was next to him, proud as punch.

Samson spoke but I didn't understand him, and an excited murmur started up around the room. Then he said in English, ‘I have something to show my friends. A big surprise!'

I looked up at Rupert and found him watching me. He was looking smug, and I decided I would wipe that expression off his face if it was the last thing I ever did. He gripped my hand as we all moved to a wall of shutters at the back of the room.

Samson said, ‘There is something outside I want you to see.'

Everyone waited. In unison the warrior boys pulled open the shutters to expose a great glass wall. Tinny trumpet music blared. Everyone stepped up to the windows and peered out. Rupert shuffled me forward, pushing through the crowd, saying, ‘Excuse us, everyone, we need front row.' We reached the glass. Samson's property was big; great expanses of lawn sloped away from the house to the gardens, which really just looked like jungle. There were some mangy-looking dogs. Monkeys in the trees. A few more warrior blokes with weapons were milling out there. And above them, swinging in a cage, alive and seemingly well, was the biggest monkey of all. My boyfriend, Jack Jones.

I lurched forward, my hands on the window. Jack was staring up at the house. Next to him in a separate cage was Joe, crouched like an animal, shading his eyes against the sun.

The crowd briefly applauded Samson's conquest. Mick Jansen was standing next to me, laughing. Rupert kicked my legs apart and pressed into me from behind. He held my arms above my head; my face was squished into the glass and my dress was riding high.

‘Jones's girlfriend,' he whispered into my ear. ‘I can't tell you how excited I am right now.'

Well, that was pretty obvious, but I didn't care. All I cared about was that Jack was alive. Oh, God. I started crying. Crying and laughing too because I was so relieved. What must Jack be thinking? Staring up at the squashed hooker in the window, wondering why she looked familiar. I hoped he didn't recognise me. Maybe he wouldn't with my new hair. I didn't want him to worry. Would he recognise Mick Jansen? Kitty was mimicking me, her hands on the glass, staring out at the boys. My boys.

But the relief and happiness didn't last long because Samson announced, in very clear English, ‘Now that I have finally shown off my catch, I will kill them tonight. My crocodiles are very hungry.' And he laughed.

Barefooted, I paced back and forth. There was a comfortable looking bed in the room, but fear and adrenaline kept me moving. The guest room was very nice, in fact, with pretty lampshades and ornaments – a bronze statue of the three wise monkeys on the bedside table. I could have imagined I was in a nice B&B if it weren't for the bars on the windows and the armed guard outside my door. And the fact that Jack and Joe were swinging in cages, ripening in the sun for tonight's feast in the croc pen. Panic welled inside me and I pushed it down. I needed a clear head if I was going to break out of here and rescue the boys. So, what were my options? Well, I could seduce the guard, give him a quickie, then kill him. An obvious solution if I could bring myself to do any of that.

I wondered how long Rupert would keep me waiting while he finished having fun at the party. It was probably really turning him on, the waiting. I opened a cupboard, seeking inspiration, thinking I might find weapons. But instead there was Tupperware. Lots and lots of brightly coloured containers, all different shapes and sizes, neatly stacked on shelves. Spare stock that didn't fit in the warehouse? Most of it looked new, not retro, which was what Dwayne seemed to be interested in. I shut the cupboard door and resumed my pacing.
Come on, Erica, think!
But I kept coming back to the only possible solution – having sex with and killing the guard.

The door swung open and in walked Kitty with a glass of champagne. She was speaking to the guard with a sweet smile, indicating the glass in her hand, pointing to me.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?' I said.

‘We, um, need to swap clothes.' She put the drink on the bedside table.

‘Why?'

‘Because . . . Samson wants me to wear your dress.'

‘Well, tell him to bugger off.' I backed away.

‘But, Erica, when you escape you will find this much easier to run in, yes?' She waved her hand over Catwoman.

My heart lifted. ‘You're going to help me?'

‘Sure.'

‘How?'

‘Um . . . I will cause a distraction.'

‘Really?'

‘Of course. Are we not best friends?'

‘No, you led me into this trap.'

‘Oh, come along, Erica. Where is your sense of fun?'

‘Fun! Now, just hang on a minute. You —'

‘Here, let me help you out of that dress.' She held out her hands and I found myself stepping towards her because, when push came to shove, I'd rather be dressed like Catwoman than a hooker.

Once we'd swapped clothes – the leopard-print wasn't as short on her – she dashed to the door, gave me a little wave and said, ‘Bye!' before rushing away.

Confused, I said nothing for a full thirty seconds until it dawned on me that I'd just been conned – again.